


Towel Down

by PallasPerilous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Ficlet, Gen, Kitchens are the Battleground of the Soul, Neat Freak Dean Winchester, Profound100 Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-12 02:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PallasPerilous/pseuds/PallasPerilous
Summary: The goddamn dish towel is what finally does it.For the ProfoundBond100 weekly challenge. Prompt: "Towel."





	Towel Down

The goddamn dish towel is what finally does it.

Cas has been driving him crazy all week, ricocheting around the bunker like a fucking pinball in search of an outlane. And now Cas is in the kitchen, and he is drying the dishes with _the wrong fucking towel._

So Dean dings him on the back of his head and snaps – “Hey, Typhoid Mary. We use _that_ one to wipe down the counters.”

Cas looks at him in silent bafflement.

Dean yanks the damp towel from his hands. “How many did you dry with this thing?”

Cas’s gaze flicks over to the towering stack of dishes on the far side of the sink and, yep, Dean’s definitely gonna have to rewash them all.

“I don’t understand,” Cas says, in that tone that he probably thinks is apologetic but in actuality comes off as so _nakedly petulant_ that Dean could strangle him right here and now and no jury would convict.

“ _Clean_ towel, for things we _touch with our mouths_ ,” Dean says, gesturing broadly the drying towel which is _right under the dish cabinet_. “Dirty, _dirty_ towel, for things we rub _raw_ _chicken_ all over,” he says, holding up the towel, and then lets it drop to the floor. It hits Cas’s shoe, but he doesn’t look down.

“Dean, the human body hosts as many bacterial cells as it does its own. I can assure you that the health implications in this case are negligible.”

Dean snorts. “Yah. Says the guy who doesn’t need to eat.”

Cas stiffens. “No, I don’t,” he replies, and now it’s _pure_ piss and vinegar. He shoves his sleeves back down. “Nor do I have any reason to contribute to this particular domestic activity –”

“Dude –”

“– or, for that matter, even to occupy this room. I apologize for the disruption. I’ll remove myself before I cause irrevocable harm.” Then he bombs out of the kitchen like he’s running late for a murder on the other side of town.

A moment later, Sam’s head and shoulders dip into the doorway, his face set to _what the fuck was that about?._

Dean rolls his eyes. “Just bein’ a goddamn diva,” he sighs.

Sam ticks over to a facetious frown. “You, or him?”

Dean flips him the bird and starts in on the dishes.

Thirty minutes and two solid feet of dishes later, Dean is inevitably feeling a little internal blowback from snapping at the guy. Dean is still, _let us not pretend_ , completely and absolutely correct about Towel Procedure because exactly _one_ person in this bunker has successfully faked possession of a food-handling license in six different states without yet sending anybody (…human) to the hospital, and it is _very much_ _him –_ but, Jesus. They’re all on top of each others’ chicken-fried nerves right now, waiting for a case to break, for the snow to melt, for an absent God to relieve the suffering of his orphaned Creation, for _Doctor Sexy MD_ to come off mid-season hiatus.

He finishes the last of the dishes – and maybe he should really just find them a drying rack, because air-drying really is the most sanitary solution even if counter space is kind of at a premium down here – and heads to the garage to scour some road salt out of the Impala’s intimate zones. His apologies are typically less half-assed if he workshops them under two tons of metal.

He gets there just in time to find Cas climbing out of the hot, ticking, slush-crusted Continental. Cas is looking about the same, and his expression doesn’t change when he finally spots Dean, standing frozen in the doorway. He shuts the car door behind him with a frankly adorable degree of care given how pissed he looks– the dude will smash a demon’s head into cement like a rotten pumpkin but apparently the Continental is one of God’s children. Then he stalks straight up to Dean and thrusts a plastic bag at him like he’s serving a subpoena.

“Uh,” Dean says.

Cas actually _grabs Dean’s hand_ from where it’s hanging by his side and shoves the bag into it. “They’re anti-microbial,” Cas says, with the same gravelly cadence he normally deploys for Powerful Incantations.

Dean cautiously peels back the plastic, finds another couple layers of cellophaneinside encasing two sets of: motherfucking dish towels. One set white, one set blue. There are possibly some screenprinted ducks.

“White for dishes. Blue for countertops. I find the claim scientifically dubious at best,” Cas grumbles, before rushing out: “but I recognize that sanitation standards are not…at the heart of the disagreement.”

“Okay, but seriously, Cas, you don’t fuck around with salmonella,” Dean says, which is just the dumbest shit he could possibly say, but at least it comes out kind of sorry-sounding.

Cas continues, undeterred in his apparently sworn mission to unload a formal diplomatic apology. “I _recognize_ that you are able to exert control over a very select few areas of your general environment – ”

“Yeah, I could also probably stand not to be such a dick about it.”

That stumps him. Dean clears his throat. “Sorry, didn’t mean to mess up your speech, or whatever.”

“I’m apologizing,” Cas monotones.

“I got it. Accepted. Right back at you. We’re good.”

Castiel looks almost disappointed. “Are we?”

Dean rubs his free hand along the back of his neck – there’s a mean-ass little knot forming up in there from glaring down at all those dishes. “Look, Cas…it’s been a fuckin’ week, okay? But you…don’t need to…do stuff like this.” He waves the dishtowels half-heartedly, plastic crinkling as they flop back and forth over his knuckles. “I _want_ you hanging out in the damn kitchen, messing things up.”

“I’d prefer to contribute positively, Dean.”

“You do, okay? Look, man, we’re family. Means when you screw up you don’t have to… _say it with flowers_ ,” He thwaps the bag against Cas’s collarbone, “or whatever.”

Cas sighs, lets his shoulders down, closes his eyes. Stays still for a long, fragile moment, which shaves a few hours off the back end of Dean’s life. Then he opens his eyes again, nails Dean with the high-beams. Guides Dean’s hand back against Dean’s own chest.

“It’s a gift,” Cas says.

Then he smiles a little, lets his hand trail away as he steps past Dean and back into the bunker.“You keep those.”

 


End file.
